


A New Record

by darcymariaphoster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Fluff, High School, Homophobia, Johnlock Roulette, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, OCD, Teenlock, Texting, Transgender!John, Transphobia, Unilock, american school system, small town setting, underlying theme of exhaustion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcymariaphoster/pseuds/darcymariaphoster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's existing in a world where everyone around him wants to create who he is and won't listen to what he has to say. Save for one person, and that person isn't even within arm's reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Record

**Author's Note:**

> So, originally, this was going to be a greaser fic and if you squint in the beginning, you can see how I set it up for it. (It's also why it takes place in the states.) And then the story kind of just took off on its own. It just turned into this... THING. But I adore this, actually. The end is iffy but I always have issues with ends. 
> 
> Also, I never mentioned it in the actual story but I placed them in Colorado. 
> 
> Anyway, this is a submission for fuckyeahteenlock (second attempt, I know). I wrote this in, like, a week. I hope it's not utter shit. 
> 
> Please enjoy! :D

Every year, John experienced the same first day. It was as if it were on repeat, some sort of skip in the record of life. The faces would _sometimes_ change, but that was all.

 

He would get dressed and have a quick breakfast before sprinting to catch the bus. He would sit near the front, away from all the bad boys in the back who tried to sneak cigarettes by opening the windows and had girls hanging over them. When the bus stopped at the school, he would sit patiently until the bus emptied, mostly tuning out the jeers from the boys as they passed him. He was fairly used to the name-calling by now. He would climb off last and head to his locker to get it organised and set up for the semester, categorising all his textbooks and notebooks by period. Back in elementary school, it had been his desk he’d get ready for the year.

 

He’d always been a bit of a perfectionist. It had gotten steadily worse as the years ran on, spurred on by those who took the security of his life from him. Which was everyone, even his family.

 

Because John Watson had a not-so-secret secret. And in a small town like the one he was trapped in, nonconformity was a crime worse than murder. He’d lost all his friends, only getting to see them when they knocked him into lockers or gave him dirty glares in the halls. He overheard too many ignorant and painful jokes with him as the punchline.

 

John was _tired_.

 

But as he woke on the first day of school that year, he remembered the spark of hope: This was his last first day in this town, his last year of high school. And that’s what got him through his morning routine until he was just finishing packing his bag for the first half of the day when someone shoved him straight into the lockers, catching his head on the inside corner of the locker door. He grumbled a bit under his breath, rubbing the spot as he watched a few boys, accompanied by some girls who gave him pitying looks, stalk away. One of them called over his shoulder, “Doing alright, _sweetheart_?” The whole crowd erupted in laughter.

 

Of course, it made sense that he would end his years on the same note that this whole mess had started. If he thought that these buffoons were capable of it, he’d almost consider this as sentiment.

 

The bullying itself had started when he was in second grade -- his immaculate way of dressing was abnormal amongst the students, as was his obsession with organisation. He remembered one of the worst moments in fourth grade when he had just finished carefully stacking a few books and notebooks to be put into his backpack at the end of the day. A snotty little girl had passed him, pushing the stack so it all slid off in an avalanche of disorganisation and he’d almost lost it. By the time he moved into the sixth grade, he only had one friend left who kept trying. At the end of the year, he was the same one shouting abuse at him from the back of the bus.

 

Looking back, John knew he probably could have kept that friend if he hadn’t made his decision to confide in him. Because of that choice, the word that Abigail Watson wanted to become John Watson spread like wildfire through the school and, by default because everyone knew everyone, the town. His own parents heard from a neighbor. They had jumped him, asking him why he hadn’t trusted them enough to tell them and then insisting that it was a phase.

 

They supported that “phase” until somewhere in middle school when John made some drastic changes to himself, deluding himself into thinking he had real support from those closest to him. He bought a few chest binders online with the allowances he’d earned over the years and cut his hair short. His sister was the only one who actually seemed to delight in his attempt at what she called “becoming an individual” and snuck him out to replace his wardrobe completely. His parents made no real or scathing comments until he asked them to use his preferred male pronouns one night over dinner.

 

“Are you done yet?” his mother had asked, voice strained with barely contained irritation. John had given her a wary glance, not understanding. “If you wanted to be the center of attention all the time so badly, we could have put you in drama class. Just knock it off, Abby. I’m tired.”

 

He’d retreated to his room after that, burning with emotions like embarrassment and anger and an overwhelming sadness. He’d sat in the middle of his room for hours, just silently crying.

 

Of course, _she_ was tired. She had to listen to the neighbors gossip. She had to watch her status in church diminish as her little girl stepped through the doors in a suit instead of a dress. She had to be told by all her friends that she must have done something wrong for God to punish her this way.

 

His dad was probably sick of it, too. He probably had serious conversations with his friends on breaks at work about all the things wrong with his youngest daughter.

 

The town was talking, John understood that. He heard the rumours in the halls, he saw the stares, he got backhanded comments about his choice.

 

It hadn’t been an easy decision to stick with after that. He had seriously considered living an uncomfortable existence just to ease his way until he could escape the town. But after borrowing one of Harriet’s dresses and standing in front of the mirror one night, he realised he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair that he had to hide to make everyone else happy, to make everyone else secure in how they perceived everything. Besides, he’d already started rocking the boat -- he might as well just topple it completely.

 

But he wasn’t sure he could go it alone. After another few months, it was wearing on him. His parents were no longer holding back their opinions of what he was doing. The kids at school were making his day-to-day life miserable. The time he spent alone in his room was both a reprieve and a very bad idea. His thoughts were becoming more and more poisonous and he was beginning to fear his own head.

 

So he turned to his computer, took up writing just to get it out. He’d found a place to post his works, and hesitantly did so because maybe what he said would resonate with someone else. It helped, in a way. He focused most of his attention on his schoolwork, getting lost in the monotony of it. And when he needed to let out his frustrations for the day, he’d post more short stories online.

 

It was how he met Sherlock, a fellow writer who followed his works. John had a habit of replying to all his reviews and it had started a conversation with one of the people. They didn’t delve much into their personal affairs, but somehow learned a lot about each other despite that. Their friendship had blossomed over the following year and soon they’d exchanged numbers, and pictures were sent of each other by request, and they texted late into the night. And it was one of these late nights that John had changed things between them. He’d saved the conversation, going back to it in his darkest times throughout high school.

 

It was the night before his first day of high school. Sherlock and he had been friends for a little over a year and and John had slowly been falling further for him for months beforehand. Anxiety was eating at him and it was well into the night, Sherlock still texting him to try and distract him from the day to come. Exhausted and raw, John had told him, _I wish it was you holding me, not just your words…_

 

He was apparently extremely bad with secrets.

 

Before he could backtrack, however, Sherlock had responded with, _I’d never let you go, you know._

 

That had shifted everything between them and their relationship was probably the one thing that held John together through the next three years.

 

The summer between his junior and senior years, Sherlock had expressed some frustrations and uneasiness concerning the move his family was making. He said they were moving states completely and he was upset by the uproot. They hadn’t talked much about where they physically existed, that being the closest they’d ever come -- besides talk about meeting when they both graduated so they could move to a big city together.

 

John had been curious about where he was moving to, but some unspoken boundary between them had held him back from actually asking. Sherlock might ask about where he lived which would just spiral into his life in this godforsaken town and he certainly didn’t want that. Sherlock knew he was struggling but he didn’t want him to know just how _much_ he was struggling. Why make him worry when there was physically nothing he could do about it?

 

The first day of his senior year, as John stood with a scowl on his face and a goose-egg forming on the crown of his head, he did the one thing he hoped would calm him a little. He pulled his phone from his pocket and messaged Sherlock a good morning and well wishes for the first day. With a sigh, he called back the spark of hope. If he could make it through the day, the year, he could make it to Sherlock and they could go struggle through life together. He picked up his backpack and closed his locker, heading for the assembly that the school always held that first day.

 

He felt his phone go off as he took his seat in the auditorium, setting his bag by his feet. He pulled his phone back out and smiled at the message: _Good morning, love. Remembering that today is the first day of the last year we’ll have to suffer through this hell?_

 

They texted each other as the auditorium started filling and John slowly became aware of a new murmur, one he’d only heard a few times in his life here: there was a new student. He looked around, trying to pin the person through the sea of faces. The name hadn’t filtered through the mainstream whispers yet so it sounded like just something someone had _heard_ , not something anyone _knew_. He hummed thoughtfully to himself as the assembly started and his messages with Sherlock slowed to a halt.

 

The principal started with his usual speech about how it was going to be a great year and all the expectations he had for everyone. He welcomed the freshmen. And then he did something new. He called to someone under the bleachers, where there was an entrance to the basketball court, and announced that we had a brand new student attending the school. It might have sounded dumb in any other school, John thought, but what the principal was _really_ saying was that there was a new person in _town_. All the freshmen were just filtering in from the middle school; they all had friends who were already sophomores. If someone was being singled out, it was because they weren’t recognisable in town; they hadn’t existed until very recently, probably.

 

A lanky boy with a shock of dark hair walked out and stood by the principal, seeming somewhere between confident in himself and extremely unsure of his surroundings. He was wearing dark wash jeans and a loose T-shirt and what looked to be high-tops -- and still managed to look more done-up that 90 percent of the school.

 

For a second, John’s heart leapt into his throat. He was too far away to make out any real details but the boy standing there looked _terribly_ familiar. The moment the principal said, “Give a warm welcome to our newest student, Sherlock Holmes,” John’s stomach rolled and he thought for sure he was going to lose his hurried breakfast.

 

_Sherlock was here._

 

There was something terribly misleading about words said from a distance. In imagining meeting Sherlock, there had been a hope he’d mostly resigned to being false floating in his heart. He’d used it with the knowledge that they would probably never meet and their relationship would eventually dwindle. He’d used it knowing that _if_ they ever did meet, it would be away from this town, somewhere safe and new.

 

But here was something he had not anticipated. A new horror for him waiting around the corner. There was the most pressing fear that once Sherlock realised he was in the same school, the same _town_ as John, he would want the physical part of their relationship. Which would be fantastic if it weren’t for the fact that this town was possibly one of the most homophobic places on Earth. Or the fact that John hadn’t _actually_ gotten around to telling him that he was still technically a girl.

 

There were so many things _wrong_ with this sort of meeting, that John felt his face grow hot with shame as he looked at his feet. His chest tightened with anxiety and guilt. He didn’t want Sherlock to know he was here. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. There were certain steps that he’d been planning on taking before they ever saw each other in person. There were things that had needed to be said before they ever spoke face to face.

 

He shifted uncomfortably as the principal told Sherlock to take a seat and the assembly proceeded, feeling longer than every other year.

 

As soon as they were dismissed, John sprinted from the auditorium and straight to his homeroom class. He was the first one there and he felt that horrific guilt spreading through his chest. He pulled his phone out as he took a seat, staring at the screen a moment before typing out his message. Sherlock wouldn’t be happy with him if they stumbled upon each other at some point in the day -- or, worse, later in the week.

 

_If you walk out the back of the cafeteria and take the doors at the end of the hall, it leads to a space outside by the science lab. I’ll meet you there on lunch._

 

It took what felt like a lifetime for Sherlock to respond, causing John’s nerves to sing with anticipation. _Okay,_ was all he got when his phone buzzed. Too much swirled in his head at that response but he did his best to ignore it all as the bell rang and he forced himself to focus on the teacher.

 

The morning seemed to drag, even though all the classes had been shortened to accommodate the assembly earlier. When the bell rang for lunch, John found himself moving without hurry toward the cafeteria. He was scared, apprehensive, excited and he couldn’t decide which was worse.

 

Eventually, though, he made it outside and glanced around. Sherlock wasn’t there yet so perhaps he hadn’t taken as long as he’d thought. He picked a spot on the grass and sat down with his legs crossed and his backpack in front of him. He pulled his lunch out with the intention of “probably should eat it” but “probably won’t” because his stomach was churning sickeningly. He heard the door to the cafeteria close and he glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Sherlock walking toward him. He hastily scrambled to his feet and faced him, resisting the urge to fidget nervously.

 

Sherlock stopped just a few feet in front of him, his face absolutely unreadable. And then he muttered, “John,” in that irresistible baritone he’d come to love from the few phone conversations they’d had.  Tossing all his fears aside for the moment, John stepped forward and they hugged tightly. Sherlock’s arms around him felt like a cocoon, a safe blanket that blocked everything else out. For several long moments, they just held each other and John almost forgot about everything he’d been worried about. Sherlock, of course, could see through anything and asked, “This isn’t the meeting you were envisioning, was it?”

 

John sighed into his boyfriend’s shoulder and shook his head. “Not at all…” he murmured into Sherlock’s T-shirt. “I’m glad for it, though. Another year, the last one, was starting to sound daunting.”

 

“And miserable,” Sherlock supplied helpfully, pulling back enough to look John over. A slightly hungry look entered his eyes that made John blush from his toes to the tips of his ears. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Whaddya mean?” John scrunched his brow, staring up at Sherlock. For the most part, his fears and anxieties had relinquished their hold so that pure adoration could replace it. He had actually forgotten all the people inside the school who were still waiting to torment him, call him stupid names, mock his clothes and his hair. Yet, Sherlock knew better.

 

He wrinkled his nose, wrapping one arm around John’s waist in a sort of comforting gesture. “You seem distracted…” he muttered softly, voice slightly strained.

 

John realised that he was being a bit selfish with all his concerns. This was supposed to be a _happy_ occasion and Sherlock was worried about John. “Nothing,” he finally managed and smiled brightly. “Except, I still haven’t gotten that ‘hello’ kiss you promised me.”

 

This at least distracted Sherlock, causing a small smile to grace his lips. “Very true…” he muttered, almost to himself, before he very tenderly took John’s face in his hands and leaned in close. He hesitated a moment before pressing their lips together softly. It was a rather chaste kiss, for all the anticipation they’d built up about their first meeting. But to John, at least, it was all he needed, all he’d been waiting for. When he pulled back, he was practically beaming.

 

And for that moment, John felt confident that Sherlock’s appearance was going to change everything for the better. He was finally safe.

 

For the first two months, the security he felt stayed. In part, it was because everyone was too concerned by the new student, how interesting he was. And then conversation started turning because they started noticing how much time Sherlock was spending with John and how bizarre it was. The rumours flew and spiralled out of the control and not even Sherlock could ignore what was being said. John tried to pretend that _nothing_ was being said, that he was not getting shoved into lockers when they thought no one was looking or he wasn’t getting threats whispered in his ear as people passed by.

 

The little charade ended abruptly one day when Sherlock was hovering by John’s locker, ranting about the dangers of the decreasing population of honey bees. One of John’s old friends, Hannah, appeared and loudly asked, “Are you going to try out for football again this year, Abby?”

 

John felt the heat in the tip of his ears. He still hadn’t told Sherlock yet and he wondered why he hadn’t at least _warned_ him. He’d been setting himself up for something like this, really. He felt his entire body go rigid, ready for the physical part of the attack because he was sure that Hannah’s boyfriend, Devin, was with her as well. Eye candy went both ways around here. Sherlock looked John over critically and then turned his attention to the group as John turned halfway around to glare at Hannah. “I was considering it,” he told her uncertainly. “Not that it’s your concern. And it’s John.”

 

Hannah snickered. Devin, who was actually on the team, outright laughed. Anyone who wasn’t watching or listening around them definitely were by that point. “Stop embarrassing yourself,” Hannah tittered, amused. “Football isn’t for girls.” She glanced at Sherlock and her smile turned positively wicked. “I’m sure Abby told you, didn’t she?”

 

Sherlock’s expression was one of mild confusion but mostly defiance. “I’m sure that whatever you’re about to say isn’t really your place to say and I so I suggest you just abort the thought now,” he replied, tone somewhere between bored and dangerous.

 

“She obviously hasn’t,” Hannah continued, although she looked as though she’d been knocked off balance a bit. “The little attention whore here isn’t a boy. Just a freakish little girl. I wouldn’t be wasting your time, if I were you.”

 

It was the first time, at least that John knew of, that someone had outright insulted him to Sherlock’s face. Anyone with eyes could see that Sherlock and John were head over heels for each other. Anyone with a brain could have told you what kind of outcome would result in something like that.

 

Sherlock stood a bit straighter, staring down his nose at Hannah. His mouth was twisted as though he’d taken a bite of something sour and his eyes glinted with anger. “I find your words offensive, especially in the face of the fact that you’re the one seeking attention around here -- one boy hanging off your arm, another from the next town over you think no one knows about. Your dress of choice suggests that your interest in the boy next to you has long since faded. Your voice is too high, fake, and you’ve caught everyone’s attention in an attempt to garner a laugh. But you are the insecure one here. You’re jealous and angry that anyone could dare have the confidence to be who they desire to be simply because you lack that ability. You’re a coward and you hate yourself. And I will splay your life out in pieces for all to see if you so much as _glance_ at John again. This is only the tip of an iceberg and you know that. Don’t test me.”

 

John had never heard the halls that silent before. Nervously, he grabbed at Sherlock’s hand and waited. The final reaction, however, was not nearly as explosive as he’d anticipated. Hannah was obviously shocked but her boyfriend was not looking at her. His eyes were narrowed at both Sherlock and John. There was a small, nervous start of conversation somewhere down the hall and then the entire hall erupted again, albeit resigned. Hannah did not say a word as she flounced away, Devin following her dutifully but giving John a very serious look as he passed. He was certain the year had just gotten infinitely worse.

 

Sherlock said nothing to him of the incident until they were locked in his bedroom later that afternoon. John was sitting on his bed while Sherlock paced the floor, brow furrowed in concentration. When John was sure that he couldn’t take the silence anymore, his boyfriend turned to him, expression now exasperated. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?” he asked, voice low and calm. “You must have realised that I already knew -- and I don’t care.”

 

The words were both surprising and humiliating. He’d had so many opportunities to tell Sherlock everything and he’d stayed silent. “I was going to,” he finally ventured. “The time never seemed right.” And then he added as a bit of an afterthought, “Besides, I didn’t know how you’d actually react. Everyone else around here treats it like a disease -- I was scared of it!”

 

“John…” Sherlock sighed and shook his head as he sat beside the blond. “If your body was what I cared about, what I fell in love with, then our long distance relationship wouldn’t have worked as long as it has. I don’t care what sex you were born as because I fell in love with your soul.” John felt the tears coming on and glanced away. He reached out and rested one hand on John’s knee. “I had an idea when we first started talking. But the first time I saw you in person, I knew. And I still don’t care.”

 

The blond glanced at him anxiously, still feeling unsure of himself, even when staring at the open and sincere face of his partner. “My parents still think it’s a phase; they won’t let me start the testosterone. The meeting wasn’t just about finally seeing you in person, you know. It was new beginnings and the start of better times. Instead, it’s just a new mess…” He slumped into Sherlock, thankful for his support. “At least I have you to deal with it alongside me…”

 

Sherlock huffed thoughtfully. “I didn’t mean to make it worse… She was an idiot. I could tell that you’ve been having a hard time and I wanted to make things better for you…” He snaked his arms around John’s waist and nuzzled his nose into his hair. “I meant it, though. If they even look at you again, I’ll make them sorry for it.”

 

“You’d have to tear down the whole town, Sherlock,” John muttered tiredly, wishing more than anything that Sherlock really could magically make everything better.

 

“That’s not impossible,” Sherlock replied, his voice distracted. “This doesn’t mean we can’t have your new beginning, John. They won’t know what to do with us.”

 

Very little could surprise John after all the years he’d spent fighting alone. Sherlock was singlehandedly the only unpredictable thing in his life anymore. One would think that all the bullying would change and grow, catch him off guard now and again. But it wasn’t true -- it was a rotation of people he’d grown up with, the lack of creativity hindering their attacks so they became exhaustingly generic. John never said a word to Sherlock, even though they both knew he was aware that the bullying was still happening. It was getting worse. And Sherlock was beginning to be affected by it, getting hip checks and sneered slurs in the halls.

 

John hated how tired Sherlock was beginning to look. This was something he was used to and Sherlock was not.

 

They talked in hushed voices in the late Friday evenings they spent together, hiding away in their bedrooms alternately. They talked about moving to a big city on the West Coast. They talked about John’s plans to finally make his transition. They talked about Sherlock’s detective dreams. They talked about using their grades to get scholarships in some obscure schools just to secure their departure. And the more they talked, the bleaker their day-to-day lives became and the brighter their futures looked.

 

Days dragged into weeks that dragged into months and they were finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. As exhausted as they were, John was beginning to think that they were actually going to make it out of there. They’d put in applications to schools all over the country, basically hoping against hope that they’d be accepted into ones that were at least in the same state.

 

It was a dreary Tuesday afternoon and John was cooped up in his bedroom with his homework scattered on the floor around him, when he heard someone thudding up the stairs to his room. He looked over his shoulder just as Harry shoved open the door and thrust a few envelopes at him. “Take them. Take them fast,” she said breathlessly and John snatched them from her.

 

There were three envelopes, each of them thick and each from a different school. “Did these just come in?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from them and up at his sister as hope blossomed in his chest.

 

She shook her head. “No, only one of them has,” she explained in a low voice. “I watched Mom sort through the mail last Thursday and caught sight of one with your name on it. She just took it to her room without a word. This is the first chance I’ve had to go snooping.” John stared at her, baffled. “I want you to get of here,” she elaborated, crossing her arms and glancing away. “One of us has got to and you’ve got the better chances.”

 

John set the envelopes down and stood, going to his sister and hugging her tightly, despite her weak protests. “Thanks, Harry…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, squirming. “Now open them and tell me if you’re leaving in June or not.” Excitedly, John turned back to the mail and sat on the floor. Harry wandered closer, avoiding his homework as best as she could, and leaned over his shoulder as he opened them one by one. His chest felt tight with anxiety and hope as he read each acceptance letter with slightly blurred vision. “Congrats, bro,” she whispered and patted his back before quietly leaving him with his thoughts.

 

For several long moments, he just stared at the papers. But when he heard the garage door, he felt pure panic overwhelm him and he gathered them up, searching his room for the best place to hide them. He grabbed his history textbook, having already finished the assignment, and thrust the papers inside before dumping the whole book into his backpack. He snagged his phone from his bedside table and texted Sherlock as he sat back down among the rest of his homework. _We need to talk about schools again._

 

He was expecting his mother to explode when she realised that someone had been in her room. Even John couldn’t match her level of OCD when it came to organisation. She would notice if there was even a wrinkle in her bed sheets that had not been there when she’d left for work that morning. Yet, for another hour after she got home, there was silence. Tension, but silence. Struggling past the niggling anticipation of some sort of lecture, John finished his homework and carefully put it all away into his backpack. He went about his nightly routine of picking his outfit for the next day and sticking it in the front of his closet, making sure his floor was clean of any scraps of paper he may have missed when tearing pages out of his notebooks, turning down the covers on his bed. Then came the call for dinner and he felt like he might be sick.

 

As he stepped out of his room, he noticed Harry already on the stairs. They shared a brief look and he hurried after her. His father was already at the head of the table when John got to the dining room. Harry was helping their mother put food on the table so he sat in his normal spot. When they were all seated and the food was being passed and divvied out, their mother calmly inquired, “Who was in my bedroom today?”

 

John’s first thought was honestly to take the blame. They were _his_ letters after all. But before he could, Harry chimed, “Me. I was looking for my lipgloss and I thought it might have been mistakenly put with your things. You know how Dad can’t tell the difference.”

 

“All the same to me,” their dad agreed lackadaisically. “It’s why those things are never left out around here. Never know where they’ll end up.”

 

But their mother was not looking at her husband nor at Harry. She was practically glaring at John. His stomach churned as he forced himself to swallow his bite of green beans. “Did you find it, Harriet?” she asked and glanced at her daughter.

 

“Pocket of the jeans I was wearing yesterday,” she chuckled embarrassedly. “I forgot about it.” Even her actions made the lie convincing but everyone at the table knew it was a lie because their mother was obviously not buying it, already knowing what was missing.

 

She nodded distractedly. “Be more careful,” she scolded lightly and turned back to her plate. “If it ends up in the wash, I won’t be happy.”

 

The rest of dinner was mostly silent with pathetic attempts at conversing about their day. When it was over, their mother looked at John and suggested, “Why don’t you help me with dishes tonight, Abby?”

 

He hated that. She ignored his pronouns and his desired name, still trying to force the gender roles on him that she thought fit best. And she used moments like these to talk at her kids. John knew that the confrontation he’d been dreading all through dinner was about to happen and so he stood, collecting plates. “Okay,” was all he managed, his thoughts on all the possible things that she could say to him and all the responses he had for her.

 

His father and sister disappeared from the room and his mother took the leftovers to the kitchen. He set the plates next to the sink and turned as his mother rounded on him. “Where are they, Abigail?” she seethed, steel in her eyes. “How dare you go through my things and steal from me.”

 

“Steal!” John cried, unable to keep his voice quiet. “How dare you hide _my things_ from me! Those envelopes are mine! They have _my name_ on them! You weren’t even going to tell me about them, were you?”

 

His mother snorted. “Of course not,” she snapped and folded her arms across her chest. “Do you believe that you’ll make it out there? In the real world? You’re still living in a fantasy, Abigail. You haven’t grown up at all and you want to go to _Washington? New York?_ It’s time to give up the game. You don’t have a job and you’ll never get one if you keep acting the way you do.”

 

“It’s _John_!” he bellowed, his patience finally wearing out. She only looked mildly startled. “Just because I don’t fit into _your_ definition of a person doesn’t mean you have any right to treat me like I’m not human! You’re half the reason I’d go to any of those places in a heartbeat! I’d rather be homeless in _Oregon_ than live in this hellhole! You disregard how I feel and insist that I’m just some braindead drama queen! Do you honestly believe I _enjoy_ getting taunted for being who I am? That I _like_ waking up every morning to knowledge that I’ll probably end up getting shoved to the ground by numerous other kids at school?” His mother’s expression was changing, becoming more uncertain as John exploded, telling her all the things he’d kept quiet from everyone. “Because I hate it! I hate the stupid names they call me, all the threats they give me. I hate coming home and getting told that I’m a liar, I’m just pretending. I hate talking to you and feeling completely invalidated because it’s one thing to be called a girl by all those kids at school, get told that I’m just being dramatic -- it’s far more painful to have my own _mothe_ r tell me those things, and tell me that I’m not good enough to be a real person! I don’t care where I go anymore! So long as it’s _far away from here!_ ”

 

He stormed from the kitchen, leaving his mother stunned, as he went to the sitting room and pulled on his shoes. He threw open the front door, slamming it shut behind him, and took off.

 

When he was in middle school, and a bit through his freshman year of high school, John used to go running all the time. He had been angrier then, blaming himself and everyone around him for his gender identity and all the problems it was giving him. He’d slowly faded out of that, though. He’d realised that it was just something he’d been born with and he couldn’t put the blame on anyone, not even himself. As he’d gotten used to how he felt, came to terms with it, and as his relationship with Sherlock had blossomed, he’d gotten less and less angry. Sure, he still had bad days where he hated everyone around him. But they had become few and far between and his excessive running had ceased. The only time he went running anymore was in the early mornings with the hope that if he kept in shape, one day he’d be able to play the sport he so dearly loved.

 

It had been almost a year and a half since he’d gone running out of anger.

 

He got back nearly an hour later, thoroughly exhausted. His mother was at the table in the dining room, sipping at tea. She said nothing and he went upstairs silently. After a quick shower, he curled up in his bed and pulled his phone to him. He glanced through the eight messages that Sherlock had sent him since his text about talking about schools:

 

_I got another acceptance letter. I assume you got one, then?_

_Which school?_

_Is everything OK?_

_I apologise for my delayed response. I was talking with my mother about the possibilities of moving to California. The letter was telling me I’d been accepted to Argosy University in LA._

_What’s wrong._

_What happened?_

_John, talk to me. I’m here._

_I’m about twenty seconds away from walking to your house._

The last one had been sent just a few minutes ago and he felt the need to stop him immediately. He tapped on Sherlock’s name and pushed send, settling under the blankets as he pressed his phone to his ear. It barely rung twice before he heard Sherlock’s voice in his ear, like a comforting lullaby. “Were you ignoring me on purpose?” he asked, somewhere between annoyed and relieved.

 

John chuckled quietly. “No, I’m sorry,” he answered softly, not wanting to be loud enough to cause his mother to come upstairs. “I had a hard evening and I kind of forgot about my phone. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

 

There was a slight pause and some rustling before Sherlock said, in a much calmer tone, “I see… Is everything alright?”

 

“Not really,” John mumbled, feeling tears in his eyes. Now that his anger had dissipated, he was at complete mercy to every other emotion his muddled brain could come up with. “My mom was hiding my acceptance letters. I got into an argument with her after dinner.” He paused a moment but before Sherlock could respond, he pressed, “I just want to go. I don’t even care about anything else. I just want you and I want to be away from here -- anywhere else. I’m so tired…”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything for several long moments, the fuzz of the connection the only sound. “Come over,” he grumbled, the sound sending jolts along John’s spine. “Now.”

 

“I can’t,” John croaked with some effort. “I just got back a bit ago from a run. My mom would notice and I’d never hear the end of it. I’ll go to your place tomorrow after school.”

 

“That’s not soon enough,” Sherlock huffed and John could imagine him pacing his room. “I’ll go over there, then. My parents won’t ask.” Before John could protest, he added, “I have a plethora of excuses if your parents ask.”

 

“Sherlock,” John groaned but the line went dead and he had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock would be on his doorstep within minutes. Muttering to himself, he dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs. The house was dark; his mother must have gone to bed already. He went to the door and anxiously peered out the little window until he saw Sherlock’s figure come up the walk. He unlocked the door and opened it slowly to avoid too much sound. Sherlock took his shoes off outside and silently slipped in. After locking the door again, the boys quietly hurried back up to John’s room, closing the bedroom door behind them.

 

Sherlock set his shoes by the door and looked John over as he approached him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he cupped his face in his hands and started planting soft kisses over his face.

 

What he was sorry for, John couldn’t care less about as he pushed his boyfriend’s coat off and hissed, “You can’t wear those clothes in my bed. The thought of all those germs and dirt just about sends me into a panic attack.”

 

Sherlock chuckled and let go of John long enough to wiggle out of his T-shirt. “You’re so peculiar, John.” He unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to reveal his boxers, slightly tented already. “Is this bearable?”

 

John stared at him, rather in awe. For all the times they’d made out, they’d never gotten more than shirtless. John could feel himself blushing as he nodded and grabbed at Sherlock’s hand, pulling him toward the bed. “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

 

Sherlock stumbled a bit, struggling to get his jeans off from around his ankles as he followed John eagerly. “It’s my nature,” he replied and pushed John onto the bed, kissing him deeply, licking the seam of his lips softly. He let out a quiet and aborted moan when his tongue was granted access and John wrapped his arms around his neck. “Too many clothes,” Sherlock whined as he yanked at the blond’s shirt.

 

“Hush,” John whispered, helping him take his pajamas off. “Can you even imagine my parents walking in right now?” Sherlock chuckled breathlessly into his neck and he bit his lip to hold back his own sounds. “God, I need you…”

 

Sherlock pulled away to look at John’s face. Their eyes met and whatever he saw was all the confirmation he needed because the next kiss they shared was full of passion and excitement and hunger and John knew he never wanted to go back. Whatever was waiting for him after that night, he would meet with courage and confidence. With the man he loved by his side, he couldn’t imagine being afraid ever again.

 

It was two weeks later when John made his fatal mistake. After the argument with his mother, he’d felt his patience with everyone around him thin dramatically. He was also feeling far too possessive of Sherlock, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Messing with John Watson was not a good idea anymore, especially with the days dwindling to when he would be able to escape.

 

Apparently, Devin never got the message. It was early morning before classes started and Sherlock was watching John put his things in his backpack for the first half of the day, talking to him about why he was torn between two of his schools. Suddenly, Sherlock was shoved back into the lockers. “Sick of her yet, freak?” Devin sneered, attempting to pass. For a moment, John didn’t register that Sherlock was being called the freak because he was always the one being called that. When he did, he felt his blood boil as he glared at Devin who continued to talk obliviously. “You don’t have to pretend, you know. No one else does.”

 

“Shut-up,” John seethed, stepping slightly more in front of Sherlock. “Don’t you _dare_ touch him.” He felt his whole body quiver a bit in raw fury. Snickering, Devin reached past John and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder in a taunting manner. There was a rushing sound in his ears as John reared back and let his fist connect with Devin’s face, only minutely satisfied with the crunch he felt.

 

“John! John!” Sherlock bellowed from behind him and pulled his arm back. The touch was comforting and, though he still felt ready to snap, he calmed enough to think. “You have fought long and hard for this year, the next two months. I will not let you get suspended because some idiot thinks he has to prove how big he is. We’re too close. Let it be.”

 

The blond watched Devin cup his nose and mouth with one hand, staggering a bit. He felt oddly proud of himself, wrapped in the knowledge that he’d done that. He turned around and closed his locker with a loud bang before taking Sherlock’s hand. “Will you walk me to class?”

 

Sherlock seemed to struggle a bit with John’s rapid swing in moods but grasped his hand tightly and nodded. “Of course.”

 

“Fucking bitch,” Devin shouted after them, halting them both in their tracks. “You know, the only reason you’re walking away is because I won’t hit _girls._ ”

 

“No,” Sherlock drawled, voice like ice as he turned around. “You just insult them, break them down, send your friends to push them around. You’re an absolute coward. You’re weak. You hoard your porn DVDs and magazines because your women can’t stand you; you fall short in every aspect of your life. You think that you can damage people with words -- how do you like mine?” Devin paled considerably and scrabbled away down the hall.

 

Naturally, John did not get away without repercussions. But thanks to Sherlock swearing up and down that it was in his defense, and given the fact that it was his first offense in all the years he’d attended school, he was given a week’s detention. He was grateful it wasn’t worse but he still cringed every time he thought about it. Even a smudge on his record made him feel like his chances were decreased dramatically. Sherlock was angry with him for all of three hours until they found themselves in his room, tangled on his bed, later that afternoon.

 

By the time graduation arrived, John honestly felt surprised. He’d somehow found himself believing that he’d never get there, that perhaps someone would find his body in a ditch three towns over before he ever graduated. Yet, the first week of June rolled around and John had plans with Sherlock to move halfway across the country to Massachusetts, each attending their own schools within minutes of each other. They’d been looking into student housing options and trying their best to come up with jobs to help themselves out. Sherlock’s parents had already offered some money to ease their way, and they decided to keep that as a backup plan. Things were optimistic and he was getting excited.

 

And when they finally made it past graduation and were faced with the actual move, John was elated. The only thing standing in his way, was his mother. She seemed to take the move personally and made constant attempts to guilt him into staying. But the day came and Sherlock was in his driveway as they packed his things into the back of his car and he wasn’t looking back. His mother watched him pack up the car with a stoic look on her face. She didn’t say a word, though. He went up to her before they left and stood in front of her. “I’m not being defiant, I hope you know. This isn’t because I’m feeling rebellious,” he told her quietly, peering up at her cautiously. “I just want a chance to be normal, like you. Since I’ve never found it here, I’m going to find it elsewhere -- with someone who loves me exactly as I am. I love you no matter what and I thank you for bringing me into this world. I learned a lot and I thank you for that, too.”

 

She hugged him tightly and muttered, “I love you, Abby,” into his hair before she let him go and went inside.

 

With a deep breath, John climbed into the car. After a moment, he turned to Sherlock and grinned. “Let’s do this,” he declared and received a mirrored grin as Sherlock started the car and took off.

 

The drive felt too short, for all that it meant and for all the years John had been waiting. The two of them talked a lot through it, and that helped as well. They stopped twice to stay in hotels and slept very little, too high on the new sensations of life and possibilities and emotions. They set up in their new apartment that they’d let Sherlock’s parents pay for while they searched for jobs. In two months, they had their life together set up and were moving toward their individual and shared goals. With Sherlock’s support, John began his official transition with testosterone and an updated wardrobe that Sherlock seemed to have a love-hate relationship with.

 

September rolled around and John found himself feeling the anxiousness that came with the first day of school. In his head, he knew that it was completely different from all his other first days. But he was trained by years and was having a hard time overcoming that. Sherlock, ever aware, put a stop to that rather quickly with a cup of tea and late-night snuggle.

 

Because when he walked through the doors the next day, it wasn’t going to be a skip in the record or smooth space that he got to ride. He was going to start a brand new record. He was going in as the person he’d always known he was, with the man of his dreams promising to support him and keep him safe. It was a new start to everything, the one day he’d been both dreading and anticipating for years. It was finally here and he had never been happier.

 

Looking at Sherlock as he opened the car door to step out, he could see it all reflected in his eyes and expression and he felt ready for anything and everything. “I love you,” he said spontaneously.

 

“I know,” Sherlock replied haughtily. “Get out. I love you and you’re going to have a fantastic day. Now go.”

  
Laughing, John climbed out and hurried into the building, absolutely elated.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I thought I'd point out a few things real quick for reasons' sake. 
> 
> I had thought vaguely of making Moriarty the villain but I decided against it because of the setting. Moriarty, to me, represents a major struggle that John and Sherlock have to face and conquer together in the show -- I translate that almost directly to this story. The setting itself is individual challenges, mostly John's. Their struggles together don't TRULY begin until the last year of high school. It didn't make sense to me to have Moriarty be in the town. He's a sort of struggle that comes later in their life, along with Molly and Lestrade. 
> 
> Also, I have a habit of making use of every character I can get my hands on in almost all my works. In this story, it wasn't directly about the people. The people are only fuel to a fire. This was about John's struggles and the resolution; this was about John and Sherlock. No one else. It wasn't fitting to have all these extra people play parts I'd have to think about and map out and get emotionally involved in. In a sense, though it might not translate to you all as easily as it does to me, this is a very simple story and to add all those other characters would be to complicate it.
> 
> Plus, this leaves it open for a possible unilock sequel in the future, if I ever feel the desire to come back to this. 
> 
> I hope that alleviates any stress you had as to why I decided on original characters instead of adding canon characters. It just flowed better, for me. If you have any other questions for me, feel free to comment and ask them! I'd be happy to answer. I hope that you were entertained by this and if you'd like to point out mistakes or leave thoughts, I'd appreciate those, too. 
> 
> Thanks for popping in! <3


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